


Success

by ArmsShanks



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Drabble, Junkenstein's Revenge, M/M, mentions of gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 07:32:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17157875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArmsShanks/pseuds/ArmsShanks
Summary: Revenge is a dish. The dessert is better.





	Success

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neroro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neroro/gifts).



> Mostly just a context-setter for an illustration, but this is a secret santa gift for Neroro who asked for some feels and perhaps Junkenstein au~

The doctor’s hands shake as he threads a needle so thick it could be considered for knitting. He never expected this. In all his hours and hours of planning and work, he never expected with any level of certainty this exact outcome.

He had succeeded.

It was a dream born of formaldehyde and spite and maybe a bit of lust, but it was a dream that had come true. So maybe it needed some fairy dust along the way, but no matter. A dead heart now beat while dozens of living have fallen silent. The evidence of such is painted in beautiful patterns along his animated canvas. He smells like the morgues the doctor had plundered to build him.

His creation lives. The king is dead. Junkenstein has never been happier in his entire life.

Even more than that, his Monster has returned to him. Junkenstein certainly didn’t expect him to bother coming back, and had spent the last two nights in a sleepless mania of disbelief, triumph, and no small amount of existential shock. The creature has retired from his rampage, finding his way back home to the old castle like a loyal pet. He wants to read into this. He really shouldn’t. God he shouldn’t dare.

His surgeon’s hands finally manage to prepare his giant-sized first aid kit and he turns to take in the Monster once more. He’s splattered with blood. Some of the drying viscera is his own, but the majority of it is not. In those crimson patterns Junkenstein imagines the faces of all those who made a mockery of him from youth to adulthood.

He is so happy he feels he will burst.

The creature is silent save for his breathing. They are big, laboured breaths that shift his entire mass. In, and out, slowly. Junkenstein steels himself and walks up to the creature, still half expecting it to turn on him just as it has destroyed all else in its path.

It doesn’t. Another breath. Two. Like bellows stoking a fire within him. It still doesn’t.

He shakes himself and readies his tools. He has work to do.

The doctor approaches his massive patient like it’s a scared animal. He holds up the needle first and points to the stitches that barely hold the creature together, miming what he will do in hopes that the Monster will put two and two together and not just think he is being attacked. The massive snout of the thing’s face twitches as he breathes in. Perhaps he finds some familiarity in the disinfectant and the stainless steel, because he just leans back and waits.

_He doesn’t see me as a threat._ Junkenstein is not sure if he should take it as an insult or blessing that the Monster seems so nonchalant about his presence. He tries to shake his trepidation and moves forward, standing uncomfortably close to the creature to begin his bloody task. He tightens up his earlier handiwork and sutures new wounds likely caused by villagers who saw him coming from far enough away to grab their pitchforks like an old cliche.

How they must have been dashed by the massive arms Junkenstein maneuvers to inspect. How they must have been crushed under his custom-sized boots. How they must have looked into the shadows of his eyes in terror.

Junkenstein catches himself a little too close, thread slipping from his hand as the metal of his prosthetic catches the side of his creation’s head. He holds it there for a second, marvelling at how he is allowed this intimacy. Only him, surely. His creator. The Monster must know he created it. Junkenstein hadn’t been sure, at first, as the massive beast had run off to rip and tear like he was built to. But here he was, docile and soft and covered in gore before him.

As his thoughts race, a weight shifts. He blinks to see the Monster has tilted his head into the hand at his cheek. Slowly he pushes his snout into Junkenstein’s prosthetic, and it is only natural for Junkenstein to cup his face in return.

Something clenches tight in his chest.

Revenge had always been first. Sure he had his fantasies, romantic and otherwise about the behemoth he stitched to sew his chaos, but those were dreams much farther off than the one of painting the quaint little town of crooked teeth and curled lips in red.

But now here he stands, tears in his eyes and coated in blood, and revenge doesn’t seem so important anymore.

“Such beautiful work, my darling,” slips from his lips, in no more than a murmur.

“ _Mm_ -uh... darr l _iiiiin_ …” the creature echoes, after a pause. They sound more like gravel grinding together than a voice, but they are his first words.

_Ah,_ thinks the last coherent shred of Doctor Junkenstein. _This is what love must feel like_.

**Author's Note:**

> [Link to just the image in case it displays weird](http://armatages.tumblr.com/post/181405996093/secret-santa-image-for-nerororoadrat-ive) (sorry, the 100% width trick is wonk on tall images.)
> 
> Social link junk:  
> [Tumblr](http://armatages.tumblr.com/)  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Armatage_S)  
> [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/ArmatageS)


End file.
